Short Story

CONFIDANTS

by

Bob Thurber
 

The evening I 'fess up to Kathy, finally conceding some portion of culpability for the wreckage of our marriage, her hair is piled high and tight, tied off like a bale of wheat--so I have a good look at her face as I'm telling her. When I get to the heart of the matter, the Nicolson's former au pair, I see the tracing of a tiny smile.

In black stretch pants and a long-sleeved T-shirt, Kathy's new look is clean and precise. If I didn't know her story I'd probably cross the street to find out. From her cute mousy ears hang clusters of tiny pearls. As I'm talking, laying it out thick and flat and ugly, her head trembles so imperceptibly that I wouldn't notice but for the tremor of her earrings; when I'm all done confessing I can't decide if these are the freshwater pearls I bought her for our second wedding anniversary or the cultured pearls she treated herself to the week our divorce took hold.

It's so cliché to tell one's former spouse of indiscretions with the neighbor's hired help, in this case a bookish, plump, freckle-breasted French au pair. But it's Sunday night, the end of another hand-off weekend, and frankly I'm bored. Gail, our three-year-old, the only real fun in the place, is asleep, which is how I carried her in, strapped in tight and slumped left in her car seat, delivered straight from my mother who was glad to get rid of her for a change; actually scolded me for running so late. Now I'm standing in Kathy's renovated country kitchen, sipping green tea, standing closer than we have in months. On the hefty butcher's block island between us is a raspberry scented candle--unlit, thank God--and a full set of carving knives. Despite a sign on the refrigerator that says "Welcome to Our Smoke-Free Home," and Gail's bedroom just sixteen paces downwind, Kathy is on her third cigarette. She's smoking 100s again--which explains the weight loss--and using her saucer for an ashtray.

She's puffing a good cloud, but she doesn't look stunned or angry, though she hasn't spoken a word since cigarette number two, when I casually said as I closed the door to Gail's bedroom. "I screwed around on you once." Now a part of me wishes I'd kept my mouth shut. Kathy, though bright and beautiful, has never been an entirely level-headed woman; I'm suddenly concerned that a quick pile-up of crushed lipstick-tipped filters may prove as threatening to my health as the proximity of so many knives.

"So what's the deal? What am I, your therapist?"

"I thought you'd like to know."

"Like?"

"Sure."

"You fall and hit your head again? Find a church," she says. "You think I care what you did?"

I shrug.

"Why now?" Kathy says. "Who cares now. Why me?"

"Because we're friends."

"I'm not your friend."

"Yes, yes you are."

"No I'm not. Tonight or any other night."

"And we're co-parents. And confidants."

"Confidants? Ha! Me and you?"

I nod and smile.

"I don't know," she says, "Sounds creepy."

But I keep nodding. I nod a slow up and down, while she nods a steady side to side, her cigarette trailing smoke. "Confidants?" she says. "That's your reason?"

"Scout's honor." I say and snap the scout's salute.

"You're not making this up?"

"We did it on a bed of coats."

She flicks and puffs. "That's pretty disgusting."

"I know."

She blows smoke straight down at her cup. "I don't think I need to know anymore."

"Your mother, and that guy she was with, you, Frank, Susan--you were all in the next room."

"I see. Well, I'm glad I don't remember. Was this before or after Gail?"

"Gail was with us, yes. Bundled up like a papoose."

Kathy releases a cloud between us. She coughs, then chokes. "Thank you, Graham. I'm experiencing such pleasant flashbacks of searching for you with a wet infant in my arms. How nice."

I nod and sip my tea. "I'm sure she left blood on some of the coats. She was a feisty one."

Kathy stubs her 100 into the saucer. "I don't need to hear anymore."

I nod. I listen to my heart while she studies me with the eyes of a juror. "Which earrings are those?" I ask.

"None of your business. How was she?"

"What?"

"Your very first virgin...?"

"It was too hurried," I say.

"But was it ecstasy, Graham? Truly?"

"It was close."

"And worth the price, I imagine."

"Price?"

"Worth all of this, all of us?"

"Of course not," I say.

She's locked on, rapid blinking. I'm guessing she's had some kind of make-over that has made her eyebrows exotically charged. "So now what? Where do you head from here?"

"Me?" Though I'm sure she means us, our redefined relationship. I like the way she outlines her lips.

"After she presses charges," Kathy says. "What's your defense? She was homesick?"

"Who's pressing charges? No one is pressing charges."

"Not yet, but you never know, she might. Statute of limitations is on her side, not yours."

"She never would. Not now. Why would she?"

"Graham, when's the last time you spoke to the girl?"

I shrug.

"Then you don't have a clue what she's thinking or where her head is at. She might wake up tomorrow with a change of heart and an overwhelming need for redemption."

"Redemption? I don't think so."

"It happens."

"No. She wasn't the goody two-shoes people thought."

"Do her parents know?"

I shrug.

"Suppose they find out?"

"She hates her parents."

"At that age, we all hate our parents."

I sip my tea and swallow. "I never did. I never hated my mother or my father. " I glance down the hall. "And Gail won't hate hers."

Kathy says, "Watch your step is all I'm saying. Wait and see. Live and learn, Graham. Eventually your little French friend will confess. She'll have a nasty fight with her mother or her father, maybe her boyfriend. She'll use you. She'll give you up. You're mackerel. You're cheese. You wait." She sets her saucer on the block. "Are you prepared to go to jail?"

The question hangs between us for a three count. It's a dumb question that leaves a knot centered behind my eyes.

"Graham?"

"What?"

"Look at me, dear."

I'm rubbing the flesh above my eyes, creating a shield with my hand. "What? I am looking," but I'm not. I'm studying the off-color of the wood on the handle of the chef's knife. "You know," I say, "you really shouldn't be loading those in the dishwasher. The dry cycle ruins the wood."

"Graham? Have you spoken to Phil Oretega?"

"Phil? Yes. I was in his office yesterday."

"You might ask his advice," says Kathy.

"About this? But why?"

"Christ! Because she's seventeen."

"Eighteen now. Almost nineteen."

Kathy frowns and leans, pressing both hands flat on the butcher's block. "Seventeen, Graham! She was a child. A child."

"Please stop saying how old she was. I know how old she was."

"She could still file charges. It's not too late. If she had a mind to. If someone persuaded her it was the right thing to do."

I touch the back of Kathy's hand. She glances off, the muscles in her neck tight. Down the hall, Gail coughs.

"Excuse me," Kathy says, jerking away. Our daughter sputters into her wake-up cry as a house full of phones sound off like a dozen chirping birds. Kathy says, "Get that, will you, Graham? Pretend you belong here." And she leaves me standing right where I am.